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WHITE FOUNTAINS 

Odes and Lyrics 



EDWARD J. O'BRIEN 



" Wise men, all ways of knowledge past, 
To the shepherds 1 wonder come at last : 
To know can only wonder breed, 
And not to know is wonder's seed." 

Sidney Godolphin. 




BOSTON 
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
MCMXVII 



Copyright, 19 17 
By Small, Maynard and Company 

( INCORPORATED } 






THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 

/ 

APR I! 1917 
©i 57D20 



TO 
MY MOTHER 

WHO FIRST BREATHED THE DREAM 



For permission to reprint certain poems in this col- 
lection grateful acknowledgment is made to the edi- 
tors of Scribner's Magazine, The Bellman, The Poetry 
Review of America, The Poetry Journal, The Little 
Review, Contemporary Verse, Others, The Trimmed Lamp, 
The Midland, The Book News Monthly, The Stratford 
Journal, The Smart Set, The San Francisco Monitor, 
and The Boston Evening Transcript]; to Mr. Alfred A. 
Knopf, the publisher of Others: An Anthology of the 
New Verse ; to Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, the publisher 
of The Lyric Year; to Mr. Laurence J. Gomme, the 
publisher of the Anthologies of Magazine Verse for 
iqi4, 1915, and 1916, and to M. Lucien Rolmer, 
editor of La Flora, Paris. 



NOTE. 

A word is necessary as to the metrical form of 
the two odes in this volume. This form is based 
on the rhythms of Gregorian plain chant, with cer- 
tain modifications required by the genius of English 
speech. Caesural pauses are indicated by commas, 
following the tradition of Mr. Bridges, Mr. Doughty, 
and other English poets. The metre may be ac- 
celerated or retarded in this form as the emotional 
expression demands, and rhyme is used sparingly 
where the pulse of the verse requires swift singing 
expression. The possibilities of this metrical form 
in English verse were first hinted at in the rhythms 
of Synge's " Riders to the Sea," and Lord Dunsany's 
" Book of Wonder." It has found one great poet 
in French verse in the person of Paul Claudel. 

Edward J. O'Brien. 



CONTENTS 

PRELUDE 

FLESH UNTO FLOWERS 3 

FLESH 5 

FLOWER 39 

LYRICS 

THE WHISPER OF EARTH 75 

IRISH 75 

THE MESSENGER 76 

TO THE FOREST WAYS 77 

"THE PIPING MOUNTAIN Y MAN 78 

HOMEWAYS 79 

ROMANY LOVE SONG 80 

LIGHT TRANSMUTED 80 

THE SHEPHERD BOY 8 1 

MAGIC 82 
song: "FAIR BODY, FLOWER NOT IN VAIN " 84 

TO AN APRIL SKYLARK 85 

THE BRIM 86 

A SONG FOR TWILIGHT - 87 

ARAN SLUMBER SONG 87 

SMOORING SONG 88 

MICHAEL PAT 89 

A CHRISTMAS WHISTLE 90 

THE WHITE MAID OF BALLINASLOE 9 1 
SONG : " MY HEART IS FULL OF LAUGHING 

BIRDS " 92 

OFF CHATHAM BARS 93 

ARAN CRADLE SONG 93 

THE SHROUD 94 

THE LAST PIPER 96 

THE LAMENT AT THE WEDDING 97 

HELLENICA 99 

ix 



LYRICS 

COMPLAINT OF THE OBLIVION OF THE DEAD 

From Jules Laforgue Io8 

THE DEAD MAIDEN, From Paul Fort IIO 

THE DRIFTING MAN IIO 

FOR ONE WHO WENT 113 



WHITE FOUNTAINS 



ODES. 



I. FLESH. 
II. FLOWER. 



PRELUDE. 

TjlLESH unto flowers, 
-*- And flame unto wind, 
The cleansing of showers 
Shall come to thee blind. 

In the night of thy sleeping 
The sound of the tide 
Shall waken thee weeping 
To turn to my side. 



FLESH. 

To " Humilis" 
The Poet speaketh to his Flesh: 

WHENCE art thou come, O substance, flee- 
ing in vain from the Spirit who doth 
rule thee? 
What dost thou weave in silence, in the heart 
of tumultuous days? 

Light playeth upon thee, and the sun smileth 
upon thy Beauty, and saith it is good; 

yet the Heart of me knoweth thee not, and my 
Mind knoweth not the web of thy weaving. 

Strange is the joy of thy Fingers, touching cool 
water, in the dawn of the morning : 

strange are thy smooth white Sides, in the 
sunlit shade of the birches. 

Thine Eyes, awful with wonder, what is their 

clear white vision, 
sealed in the waters of silence, hidden in plumy 

sleep ? 

Thy Neck, slender and dovelike, is it the whis- 
per of music, 

dipping its happy smoothness, in the cool run- 
ning waters of life? 

5 



Flesh. Thy Shoulders, which shine in the pool, high 
and calm in their grace, 
are they the song of thy Beauty, erect in the 
sight of the angels? 

Thy Bosom, where laugheth the sunlight, 
is it the secret tabernacle, 

watched by the morning stars, as they shine on 
the heart of the world? 

Thine Arms, which glisten in freedom, 
do they fly with the wings of the morning, 
bearing thee from the night, o'er the silver 
waters of sleep? 

Thy Fingers, white as the water drops, thy 

Fingers which touch in silence, 
what do they whisper thee, in the quiet hours 

of the evening? 

Thy Sides, with the curve of worship, soft as 

the blush of springlight, 
what is the song of their praise, in the golden 

throb of noonday? 

Thy Back, with the shy smooth shadows, 
what doth she hide from thy thoughts, in the 
still reflections of slumber? 

Thy Thighs, springing bravely in poise, from 

the dream of thy inmost being, 
what is their silent message, to the Eyes which 

behold their stillness? 
6 



Thy secret eternal Organs, creative in ecstasy, Fiesft - 
what is their strong brave prayer, praising the 
living God? 

Thy Legs, with the brave firm muscles, 
what is the hymn of their motion, 
propelling the suave strong Feet, on the com- 
mon road to the sunrise? 

What do they say to thine Heart? 
and what is her answering music? 

Tell me the song of thine Heart, O beautiful 
nude brown Body. 

Tell me thy musical Word, naked and un- 
ashamed. 



And his Flesh answereth the Poet: 

I am thy singing voice. 

Thine Heart heareth not, the tides of my music, 
but the stars of the sea, and the wind in the 
laughing heavens. 

The rushing song of my veins, doth laugh in 

the eyes of the angels : 
the harmony of my music, doth ring in the ears 

of the Most High. 

And one day there cometh silence, and thine 
Heart shall be tuned to my singing, 

and in the valley of death, thou shalt bow to 
my song of praise. 

7 



Flesh. Then the Poet saith to his Flesh: 

Am I not a Poet, and do I not see thy Beauty? 
Wherefore then shall I not hear, thy song of 
praise in my youth? 



And his Flesh answer eth the Poet: 

Truly I know thee now not as other men. 

For thine Heart doth call unto my music, 
and thy Mouth shall give voice to my song. 

Hear then my voice. 

I am the substance which doth free : from mine 
Heart flow the waves of my music. 

Flooding the heart of Heaven, they rise to the 
Feet of God. 

My movement is born of desire, and longing 

awful with silence: 
my movement dieth in Love, and the Heart of 

Eternal Rest 

Starlight and apple bloom, are waves of my 

musical weaving: 
water and tremulous wind, are the light of my 

singing mesh. 

My playing doth laugh in the dawn, and smile 

on the golden sun: 
it sinketh to rest in the evening, and slumbereth 

under the moon. 

8 



Body of earth am I, and Flame of the lucid Flesk - 

heavens : 
Light shineth forth from my Side, I bless thee 

with candid Hands. 



Then his Hands say unto the Poet: 

We are the will of thy Flesh : we are thine 
Hands. 

The purity of thy Flesh, cometh out of the 

gleaming Waters: 
the shining Light of thy Flesh, is smooth in thy 

cleansing Hands. 

We are the laughter of water, the pallor of 

dreaming moonlight: 
we bear the softness of vision, to thy fair brown 

tremulous Sides. 

Sleek as the breast of the dove, is the gentle 

Flesh we have laven : 
silent as laughing water, under the silver moon. 

The Light of the running spheres, doth glisten 

under our Nails: 
Nails with the twilight flush, at the heart of a 

folded rose. 

Light runneth over our Palms, singing strange 

starry secrets : 
Light doth sing in our veins, the song of our 

grey-veiled Will. 

9 



Flesh. We are the eyes of the blind, who dip in the 
midnight waters: 
we are the ears of silence, feeling the rhythm 
of rest. 

We taste the wonders of touch: 
the tremulous secrets of being, 
elude not our rosy-tipped Fingers, dawn-colored 
messenger birds. 

And, still, in the evening starlight, 
folded in adoration, 

we dream of the end of our labor, bow to the 
dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Hands: 
Peace to you, O mine Hands. 

Into you now I commit, the passionate dreams 

of my youth : 
into you now do I set, the winged words of my 

song. 

Lay your dawn-colored Fingers, upon the inno- 
cent paper, 

and free the wings of my verses, from the sun- 
lit walls of my Heart, 

that they may fly o'er the mirroring waters, 

imaged in rippling circles : 
and gazing therein I may learn, the flame-white 

dream of mine Eyes. 
10 



Then his Eyes say unto the Poet: Flesh. 

We are the dream of thy Flesh: we are thine 
Eyes. 

The stars gaze upon us, in wonder and adora- 
tion: 

curtained in veined Light, we surprise the secret 
of song. 

Blood dreameth deep, 

and the nerve of our single musical wonder, 
doth whisper the shadowed Word, to the dream 
that our eyelids bear. 

Light doth meet us with joy, as the Bridegroom 

cometh unto the Bride; 
of our marriage are born white dreams, bearers 

of peaceful tidings. 

Dream 

weaveth in and out of thy Flesh, through our 

welcoming vision : 
prayer shineth out of the depths, of our musical 

placid pools. 

Color we fashion in streams, and fountains of 

adoration : 
form, in the rhythm of peace, is born in our 

vision of worship. 

We are the brimming waters, where eternity 

meeteth time; 
and white in the shining fields of our childhood, 

the candor of stars. 
ii 



Flesh. Light giveth praise unto Light, from morning 
unto the evening: 
from evening unto the morning, Light resteth 
on fluttering wings. 

And the gentle wonder of sorrow, is thine 

through our patient weaving: 
we dream of the end of our dreaming, bow to 

the dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Eyes: 
Peace to you, O mine Eyes. 

Out of your placid depths, rise the dreams that 

fill me with wonder : 
into your pools of Light, they sink with a 

murmur of prayer. 

Beckon the Light of dawn, and the still trans- 
parence of evening, 
forth from the singing veil, of eternal adoration. 

But now, O mine Eyes, turn to the mirroring 

waters ; 
cast your dreaming sight, on the fair brown 

Neck: 
and gazing thereon I may learn, her flowery 

dream. 



12 



Then his Neck saith to the Poet: Flesh. 

I am the flower of thy Flesh : I am thy Neck. 

The slender Flower of thy Flesh, bloweth fair 

in the pulsing sunrise : 
she doth dream of the golden day, in the placid 

hours of twilight. 

The flowering pillar of the Body's temple, 
adoreth the Holy Ghost: 
* in the morning hours, her chalice receiveth the 
Bridegroom. 

Light revolveth around, and showereth treasure : 
the low susurrus of slumber, caresseth her 
Beauty. 

Slender and yielding as wonder, and firm as 

thought, 
her dream is the whisper of silence, and water 

springs. 

Wind and the rippling of sunlight, play on her 

gentle petals: 
she doth bow to the heart of the night, in holy 

repose, 

dreaming of windy fields, where angels run in 

the grasses : 
dreaming of Heaven's fields, where the flowers 

in choir 
sing to the Most High. 

13 



Flesh. And then cometh morning Light, 
and the hymn of the cock, 
and the old watchdog, barking at early risers, 

and lo! in the East, the laughing Eyes of the 

Bridegroom : 
she doth dream of the end of her flowering, 

bow to the dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Neck: 
Peace to thee, O my Neck. 

Blow, happy flower, in music of adoration: 
blow in the morning Light, to the Eyes of the 
golden Bridegroom! 

Whisper a prayer in the evening, 
for thou hast found favor in His sight: 
He hath gazed on the work of His Hands, and 
saith it is good. 

And now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the high calm 

beautiful Shoulders: 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their angelic 

song. 

Then his Shoulders say unto the Poet: 

We are the song of thy Flesh: we are thy 
Shoulders. 

14 



The gentle song of our Beauty, doth flow F^sh. 

through the air of morning: 
doves are not fairer, nor plashing of water on 

sunlit sands. 

Shadow runneth over us, and Light chaseth 

Light in our veins : 
high in the glow of noon, we rise to the Sun as 

our Lover. 

Color playeth over us, and imparteth strange 

starry secrets: 
the Light of grace, weaveth in and out of our 

Beauty. 

We are the Body's, silent aspiration: 
out of our dreams, grow the Spirit's rustling 
pinions. 

Erect and calm, by the shores of the limitless 

ocean, 
we sing with the roar of the tide, into the Eyes 

of the Father; 
we sing with the laughter of stars, hidden under 

our wings. 

Swimming in water or Light, 

we part the elements, bowing before our Beauty : 

the wind doth sing, for joy that we are fair. 

And we are the great companions, thy twin 

guardian angels : 
we are the song of thy Flesh, as it dreameth of 

the Most High. 

15 



Flesh. Calm as remembered loveliness, we shine in the 
crystal pool : 
and dream of the end of our song, bow to the 
dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Shoulders: 
Peace to you, my Shoulders. 

How you are fair when the morning, doth wrap 

you in wings of sunlight: 
soft is your repose, as the prayer of a maiden. 

And you are strong as prayer, as you shine in 

the pride of the Body, 
singing the hymn of her Beauty, erect in the 

sight of the angels. 

But now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the laughing 

Bosom : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, her hidden 

treasure. 



Then his Bosom saith to the Poet: 

I am the shrine of thy Flesh: I am thy Bosom. 

I say unto thee, that man knoweth not, the flame 

of my adoration : 
planets that sing in choir, and crucifixions. 
16 



Stars that flow in my veins, are urgent with Flesft - 

rushing music: 
in awful silence of wonder, I receive the Flesh 

of the Bridegroom. 

Mine is the laughter of fire : 
naked as Light is my Beauty. 



I am thy Body's nest: 
and I am warm. 



Light playeth through me, and casteth shadow 

soft as prayer: 
yet my Love hath tides, that roar as the limits 

of ocean. 



Gentle as the water-spring, when I touch the 

breasts of the Beloved : 
mine is the fragrance of wind, from the fields 

of thyme. 

And then in the cool of the evening, wrapped 

in the white veil of slumber, 
thine Arms repose as a cross, on my altar of 

benediction, 

and I dream in the breathing stillness, hushed 

with majestic wings : 
dream of the Host in the shrine, bow to the 

dove-white Word. 

17 



Flesh. And the Poet saith to his Bosom: 
Peace to thee, O my Bosom. 

How clear is thy smile, in the rapture of con- 
templation : 

how soft is thy prayer, rising and falling 
profoundly. 

Teach me the source of thy vision, thy rhythm 

of aspiration : 
guard my slumber, and waken my dreams to 

high desire. 

And now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the glorious Arms : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their winged 
deed. 

Then his Arms say unto the Poet: 

We are the pride of thy Flesh: we are thine 
Arms. 

Firm in the glow of the morning, we bear thee 

over the waters : 
thy dreams rest on us as a pillow, in the watches 

of the night. 

We are the will of thy Shoulders, flaming with 

news from the Body : 
we trouble thine Hands with Beauty, and they 

obey. 

18 



Out of our strength ariseth, the Shoulders' Flesh. 

aspiration : 
the secret of Light floweth down, to the tips 

of the Fingers. 

Spring doth abide in us, and the curve of wheat : 
the flame of poppies, doth redden under our 
Flesh. 

And then cometh summer tan, 
and the wine of the sun doth flood in our veins : 
. Life thunder eth, in the ebb and flow of our 
tides. 

Low as the rumble of thunder on distant hills, 
or the echoes of toil, that rise from the heart 

of a city, 
the will of the Body's labor, doth roar in our 

rushing channels. 

And then cometh peace, 

and the stillness of earth and rain. 

Will driveth under the grass, and urgeth flowers, 

to blow from our dust: 
we dream at the end of our striving, bow to 

the dove-white Word. 

And the Poet saith to his Arms: 
Peace to you, O mine Arms. 

I say unto you, that you have done well in my 

service : 
you have earned much, O good and faithful 

servants. 

19 



Flesh, into your care I commit, the flame of my Body's 
labor : 
you shall have rest, at the end of the Master's 
harvest. 

And now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the slender 
Fingers : 

and gazing thereon I may learn, their flame- 
tipped aspiration. 



Then his Fingers say unto the Poet: 

We are the buds of thy Flesh: we are thy 
Fingers. 

As the sap runneth out through the bough, 
so doth thy dream flow forth through our 
fairness. 

Time slippeth past, as the leaf on the current: 
we are the measure, of the Eternal stillness. 

The dawn doth dream under our iridescent 

nails : 
in our hidden valleys of Light, lieth the shadow 

of evening. 

We are the unborn image: Hope is our un- 
blown Flower : 

white as the laughter of maidens, our con- 
templation. 

20 



We tingle with rosy mirth, in the dewy sun- 'Flesh. 

light : 
chaste in the dripping pool, 
we lave the Breast, and the dreamy Limbs, and 

the patient Eyes. 

And we have dipped our smoothness, in the 

Holy Fountain : 
we make the Sign of the Cross, on the templed 

Forehead. 

Listen unto our song, in the fragrant twilight, 
and you shall hear the murmurous humming of 
bees, drowsy with honey. 

Sweet is our hushed delight, close folded in 

recollection : 
we dream of our budding Beauty, bow to the 

dove-white Word. 

And the Poet saith to his Fingers: 
Peace to you, O my Fingers. 

As the cool wind doth ripple the calm, of the 

twilight waters, 
so doth your Beauty laugh, in my silent Heart. 

Bless me, with the dew of your holy joy: 
you are the Children, of the Eternal Rose. 

And now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the curving Sides: 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their hymn of 
worship. 

21 



Flesh. Then his Sides say unto the Poet: 

We are the mystery of thy Flesh: we are thy 
Sides. 

Palpitant in the golden noon, by the shore of 

the. ocean, 
revery doth repose, in our silences. 

We are the Seraphim, of the Body's temple: 
fair are our curves, as the lip of the crystal 
vase. 

Verily Light, poureth not more pure from the 

dayspring, 
than Color playeth, under our softened sheen. 

Springlight runneth merrily, over our surface, 
even as the shadow of a cloud, doth chase the 
lambs in the meadow. 

We are brothers, unto the Morning Stars: 
the wind, bringeth us tidings of their music. 

The wind doth hearken, as we chaunt, in the 

open spaces: 
Holy, Holy, Holy! to the Most High. 

Yet know we not, the tides of our mystic being: 
Form doth shape us, chaste, in wonder and fear. 

Veiled is our adoration, and pure as trumpets 
afar: 

we dream of our loveliness, bow to the dove- 
white Word. 

22 



And the Poet saith to his Sides: Flesh - 

Peace to you, O my Sides. 

How you are gentle birds, sheltering under the 

eaves of the Temple : 
the Heart heareth your song; and doth join in 

your prayer. 

-Wells of Love, would I might rest in your 
waters : 

reflecting the Face of the Son, in your fathom- 
less calm. 

But now, O mine Eyes, turn to the mirroring 

waters : 
cast your dreaming sight, on the flowing Back: 
and gazing thereon I may learn, her shy reserve. 

Then his Back saith to the Poet: 

I am the arch of thy Flesh: I am thy Back, 

flowing with ripple of Light, from the high calm 

beautiful Shoulders, 
gravely down to the Haunches: and they are 

fair and strong. 

The secret of pain, lieth hidden under my 

music : 
suave as the petalled flower, is my Flesh. 

23 



Flesh. I am the curve of thy Body: 

thy musical Word, is fulfilled in the voice of 

my Beauty: 
in my smooth gray shadow, lieth the strange 

mystery of thy Will. 

The pattern of Law, doth slumber in my tex- 
ture: 
thy Body's syllable, doth stir in my veins. 

White in the circling rays of the summer morn- 
ing, the Cross doth hide under my veil: 
at evening I bend in prayer, and adoration. 

Reverent are thy Fingers: 

tremblingly they touch, the yielding hollows: 

verily, I am a nest of stars. 

I say unto thee, 

if thou didst once know, the ineffable mystery 

of contact, 
thou wouldst go lonely and silent, all thy days, 

even as I lie silent, carrying thy Body's Syllable : 
dream of the end of my silence, bow to the 
dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Back: 
Peace to thee, O my Back. 

Often I dreamed of thee : 
but now do I know, the secret of thy stillness. 
24 



Now am I glad in my youth, Flesh. 

for that I bear in thee 

the shadow, of the first Syllable of the Name. 

But do you, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the glowing 

Thighs : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their equal 

poise. 



Then his Thighs say unto the Poet: 

We are the health of thy Flesh: we are thy 
Thighs. 

As the elm doth flourish, expanding in fruitful 

vigor, 
so are we, the sturdy trees of thy Body. 

And we are nourished by hidden springs : 
the sap doth circle, higher and ever higher, 
as life doth run in the elm, rooted in fair hill 
pastures. 

Urgent, with the tide of the flooding veins, 
Matter riseth, unto the brim of our vessels. 

Ebbing with inspiration, it sinketh into repose: 
we are the living flowers, of thy Blood. 

Flushed with fire, we lie in the summer grasses, 
odorous, with twisted eglantine. 

25 



Flesh. Heat doth lap us, with singing tongues of flame : 
the locust, doth alight on our glowing Flesh. 

And then we come, to the murmuring pebbly 

brook : 
cool as honey, it slaketh our burning sides. 

We bear the words of thy secret eternal Or- 
gans, unto thy Body: 

we dream of the end of birth, bow to the dove- 
white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his Thighs: 
Peace to you, O my Thighs. 

Flame doth dwell in you, twin guardians of 

birth : 
the flower of innocence, lieth furled in your 

music. 

And you are the poise of my Flesh: 
you are fair. 

But now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the secret eternal 

Organs : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their awful 

creative music. 



26 



Then his creative Organs say unto the Poet: Fiesh - 

We are the gates of thy Flesh: we are thy 
secret eternal Organs. 

Thou shalt reverence us, as the planets bow to 

their sun: 
we are thy noblest, prayer. 

Despise us not, for we say unto thee: 

Thou shalt have Life hereafter, even as thou 

dost respect us now: 
we are the gates, of thy Flesh. 

The Soul hath its Seed, as the Body: 
thou shalt sow, in fruitful ground, 
warmed by grace, and watered with contem- 
plation. 

Thou art holy in us: 
and we in thee. 

We say unto thee: 

See that thou conceal us not, 

but guard us, with the seal of reverence. 

As the heavenly host, are concealed by flaming 

ramparts : 
so is the starry empyrean of thy Flesh, within 
our gates. 

We are the archangels, 
before thy throne. 

27 



Flesh. Prostrate, before the free will of thy creation, 
we await thee: 

dream of the end of our stillness, bow to the 
dove-white Word. 



And the Poet saith to his creative Organs: 
Peace unto you. 

In reverent silence I hearken, unto your ad- 
monition : 
you are the archangels, of my Flesh. 

Nor shall I now, conceal you, 

but guard you, with the seal of reverence: 

you are my noblest, prayer. 

Now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the Legs, singing 

of motion : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, the hymn of 

their advance. 



Then his Legs say unto the Poet: 

We are the pillars of thy Flesh: we are thy 
Legs. 

Motion doth sing in us, the hymn of thy Will: 
urgent as grass, and the wheeling of planets, 
thy Flesh groweth from us, and we from thy 
Flesh. 

28 



Fair as the trunk of the beech, we swell from W«*- 

thy beautiful Ankles : 
the flexure of thy Knees, doth bend in freedom. 

Moved by the Love that governeth the stars, 

we advance in graciousness : 
we carry thee, to the goal of thy aspiration. 

And humble, before the altar of thy dreams, 

we kneel, in contemplation, 

still as the Breath of Life, thou dost adore. 

And we are fair in the dance: 
we govern thy Body's poise, and her genuflec- 
tions. 

Thy Body's arch, doth rise from our endurance : 
we spring from the passionate roots, of thy 
blossoming Flesh. 

From thy Thighs with the health of thy Body, 

circling through their music, 
our rhythm floweth down, to the gracious Feet. 

Light poureth not more loveliness over the sky, 
than dreameth under the surface of our Flesh : 
naked as Light, we lie on the sunny hill : 
dream of the end of our motion, bow to the 
dove-white Word. 



29 



Flesh. And the Poet saith to his Legs: 
Peace to you, O my Legs. 

How you are sturdy and fair, in the grace of 

your motion : 
you bear my Body, along the road to the sunrise. 

And even as the sun climbeth unto the lofty 
zenith, and sinketh into the rosy waters of 
evening : 

so do you climb through Light, and bear me to 
rest in the shadows. 

But now, O mine Eyes, 

cast your dreaming sight, on the chaste brown 

Feet : 
and gazing thereon I may learn, their innocence. 

Then his Feet say unto the Poet: 

We are the roots of thy Flesh : we are thy Feet. 

Thou shalt guard our path, and lead us unto 

the sunrise: 
guide our steps, that we may bear thee with 

honor. 

Bare us unto the winds, and the laughing 

waters : 
uncover us, that we may touch thy mother, 

earth. 

30 



Gaze on our innocence, and thou shalt learn Fiesh - 

the mystery of touch : 
thine Hands know not earth as we : 
in our touch, lieth flame. 

We are brown as the dust, living with recollec- 
tion: 
chaste as air, that flowereth in the breeze. 

We are the perfect arches, of thy Body : 
behold with joy, thy Soles and thy cushioned 
Heels. 

Full-blown Flesh, doth shrine thy virgin Ankles : 
behold their dreaming veins, 
blue as the sky, or purple as grapes that flush 
on the vine. 

Smile on us with thine Eyes, and thou shalt see 
in the laughter of children at play, or the morn- 
ing prayers of a maiden, 
purity not more white, chastity not more tender. 

Flowering dust are we, and dusky brown as our 

mother : 
we dream of the end of our journey, bow to 

the dove-white Word. 

And the Poet saith to his Feet: 
Peace to you, O my Feet. 

Into you now I commit, the passionate paths of 

my youth: 
into your care do I set, the winged ways of my 

journey. 

3i 



Flesh. I bare you unto the winds, and the laughing 
waters. 
Lay your fairness upon our mother, earth. 

And now, O mine Heart, 

thou hast hearkened unto my voice, and heard 

the words of my music : 
now fain would I listen to thee, and join in thy 

ardent prayer. 



Then his Heart saith to the Poet: 

I say unto thee: 

Thou hast heard my prayer, in the song of thy 
Body's members. 

Aspiration, doth ebb from thy Flesh in the 

evening : 
inspiration, floodeth thy Flesh in the morning. 

I am the moon, that ruleth the tides of thy 

Blood : 
my prayer doth surge, in diastole and systole. 

The will of thy Blood, doth urge thy coursing 

veins : 
thy Blood is a book of planets, graven upon the 

constellations of thy Flesh. 

No treasure is more precious, than thy Blood: 
its Calvaries, redeem the spheres of thy Flesh. 

32 



I say unto thee, that every sand in thy Flesh P^sh. 

hath its crucifixions : 
resurrection doth flower, from every drop of 

thy Blood. 

Sand calleth out unto sand, and Flesh unto 

Flesh : 
drop calleth out unto drop, and Blood unto 

Blood. 

Vein doth sing unto vein, and beloved unto 

Beloved : 
dream doth aspire unto Dream, and thy word 

unto the Word. 

And the Word becometh Flesh, and dwelleth 

within thee: 
thy Flesh is the divine Shadow, thy Blood doth 

utter the Name. 



And his Blood saith: 

The Flesh hath its sands, and the flame of its 

mother, earth: 
The Blood doth purify, the Flesh, with its winds 

and tides. 



Thy Body is what the will, of thy Flesh and 

Blood hath decreed: 
thou art what sand and flame, and wind and tide 

have made thee. 

33 



Flesh. Then his Flesh saith to the Poet: 

Thou art the ruler, of thy universe : 

in the vast spaces between, the planets and stars 

of thy Flesh, 
the Blood doth sing, in praise of the Most High. 

Behold thy Flesh, in the Light of its seeded 

stars, 
weaving in naked dance, the music of the 

spheres. 

Light crieth out unto Light, across infinite 

spaces, 
myriad songs arise, from the tips of thy Fingers. 

In the curve of thy Foot, lieth a Milky Way: 
streaming with music sweeter, than vanished 

adoration, 
flooding with Love from afar, as it toucheth 

the sod. 

Thine Eyes have depths unmeasured, by the 

flight of thine archangels : 
thine Heart hath heights of prayer, that rise to 

the foot of the throne. 

I say unto thee, that the song of thy Flesh 
never dieth: 

there is no death, 

nor doth change, quench the flame of her sing- 
ing stars. 

34 



The stars of thy Flesh, when forgetfulness, F^sh. 

seemeth to come upon thee, 
part and die into Light, combining in other 

songs. 

Yet a day shall come, when the trumpet call of 
thy Will, 

mingling with other Wills, in abandon of adora- 
tion, 
- shall summon thy stars again, to their old 
disposal, 

and thou shalt arise in thy Flesh, mingling in 

Love with thy brethren : 
resurrection shall flower in flame, unto the 

Father. 

Dust unto dust thou shalt go, and Flesh unto 

Flower : 
yet thou shalt flame at the end, in the image of 

the Son. 

And the Spirit ruleth thee, through many 

changes : 
the sod doth dream of thee, and thy coming 

hour. 

Aspiration, streaming through inspiration, doth 
weave the first Syllable of the Name: 

whereof thy Flesh and thy Blood, are the per- 
fect shadow. 

And aspiration flowereth in sex: 
through the inspiration of sex, the Flesh is 
reborn. 

35 



Flesh. Wonder of Bridegroom and Bride, 
Flesh calling out unto Flesh, 
Light overflowing the dykes, of the heavenly 
ramparts, 

trembling with wonder, and troubled with 

Beauty breathing, 
how the Flesh is fair, unto the Eyes of the 

Lover, 
and she shall know, the mystery of Hands. 

And shrined in the Eyes of Lover and Beloved, 
each doth see the shining Face of the other: 

the Face is the Sacrament of Flesh and Blood, 
outward and visible sign of inward grace. 

Grace floweth out unto grace, and returneth in 

harmony : 
the Eyes of the Lover, are the Spirit's music. 

Thy Face doth shine, on sun and wind and 

waters : 
they are what thou dost make them, with thy 

grace. 

Thou shalt make thy Body, a garden of fair 

delights : 
no harmony, is more pleasing to the Most High. 

The Father created thee, and hath said thou 
art good, and hath rested from His labors: 

guard thy Beauty, and offer it unto the Bride- 
groom. 

36 



There is no darker evil, than to neglect the Fiesfl - 

Temple of thy Spirit : 
sweep it clean, and guard the holy gates. 

Thou shalt do no despite, unto thy Body : 
thou shalt not mortify thy Flesh : 
thy Flesh, is the flaming habitation of the 
Holy Ghost. 

Flesh and Blood, sing naked unto the Father : 
the Morning Stars, join in their spheral chime. 

The Son descendeth, naked into his tabernacle : 
Eternal Beauty, flowereth in Time. 



The Poet remaineth silent in adoration. Then he 
saith : 

Peace to thee, O my Flesh. 

Mine Heart calleth unto thy music, 

and my Mouth doth give voice to thy song. 

Thou art the substance which doth free : from 
mine Heart flow the waves of thy music : 

flooding the heart of Heaven, they rise to the 
feet of God. 

Thy movement is born of desire, and longing 

awful with silence : 
thy movement dieth in Love, and the Heart of 

Eternal Rest. 

37 



Flesh. He prayeth unto the Father and the Son and the 
Holy Ghost: 

I give Thee thanks, that Thou hast led me out 

of the bitter ways, and unto peace: 
vouchsafe of Thy Goodness strength, that I 

may redeem my Body, in the image of Thy 

Son in the tabernacle, 
that Flesh and Blood in me, may become thy 

perfect praise. 

And even as my Flesh is the shadow, of the 

first Syllable of Thy Word, 
let Thy grace shine in my Heart: 
for the Word becometh Flesh, and dwelleth 

within me. 



38 



FLOWER. 

To Paul Claudel 

The Poet, naked on a sunny Hill, speaketh to a little 
Flower: 

Little Flower, open thine heart and tell me, why 
thou dost smile and blow in thine innocence : 

thou art gentle as laughter, and pure as the 
wonder of children. 

Why art thou so wise, and fair in the Grasses? 
Thou art little as Love, and fragrant as medi- 
tation. 

Sunlight laugheth on thy Flesh, and on mine: 
Little brother Flower, whisper to me thy secret. 

And the little Flower doth answer the Poet: 

Brother Poet, I laugh that thy Flesh is fair: 
I laugh that Grass is green, and the Wind is 

cool: 
I laugh at Color and Light, in adoration. 

The Father dreameth of me : I dream in the 

veins of the Son : 
the Spirit guardeth the shadow of thy Word, 

in the channels of my petals. 

39 



Flower. Even as yesternoon thy Flesh hath told thee, 
the Word of thy Body, naked and unashamed : 
so thou hast shaped my Beauty, in thine image. 

Flesh unto Flower, floweth in silent Music: 
Flower smileth at Flesh, doth dream of the 
morrow. 

Light streameth forth, from thy silent coun- 
tenance : 
alas, and shadow darkeneth thine Eyes. 

In the Light of thine holiness, our face is fair : 
thy shadow cloudeth the Sky, we shine no 
longer. 

Sun and Wind and Water, are even as thou 

dost make them; 
thy Flesh doth reveal to us, the Word that we 

adore. 



Then the Poet saith to his Flesh: 

O my Flesh, fair living temple of my winged 

Soul, 
how thou art brown and fair, with ripple of 

Light upon thee. 

Beautiful unto tears, thou dost lie in the fra- 
grant Grasses, 

high on the sunny Hill, against the blue of the 
Sea. 

40 



Thou art the Foam of Light, even as the little Flower. 

blowing Flowers around thee : 
Grass and Waters and Air, are the nest of thy 

gentle Limbs. 

How shall the Flower of Beauty, open to me 

her secret? 
Tell me, O Flesh in flower, the Word that I 

must say. 

And his Flesh doth answer the Poet: 

Flower and Flesh are fair, as thou dost create 

their Beauty: 
dream of Flesh and Flower, in the image of the 

Word. 

Flower shadoweth Flesh, as Flesh doth shadow 

the Word: 
be thou pure and create, Earth and Waters and 

Sky. 

For art thou not a Poet, and brother of all that 

shineth ? 
Speak to Earth and Waters and Sky, and thou 

shalt hear. 



The Poet tumeth unto the Earth, and burieth his 
Face in her Grasses. He lieth silent in won- 
der; then he saith: 

Far-flaming Mother Earth, thou who hast borne 

me in silence, 
under the garment of Dust, and glowing dream; 

4i 



Flower. Guardian Mother Earth, with brown eyes of 
compassion, 
thy bosom is warm, and familiar as Music in 
dusky ways. 

If I have ever loved thee, O Mother Earth, 
hearken unto thy child, 

and cast thine eyes, on the Flesh that thou hast 
borne. 

Verily thou art gentle, as doves in the twilight: 
grant thy tired child, rest in the dream of thy 
breast. 

Fain would I return, home to the heart of our 

memories : 
hear the prayer of the Sod, and the murmurous 

Grasses ; 

breathe the forgotten dreams, of thy fragrant 

Flowers ; 
Body to trunk, enclasp the singing Tree; 

the song of Hill and Plain, and the running 

Hollows, 
murmur and rustle and silence, would I hear. 



And the Earth saith unto the Poet: 
Peace to thee, O my child. 

Lay thine Ear to the Sod: the rumorous Dust 

shall whisper 
tidings unto thine Heart, of the lucid fountain 

of dreams. 

42 



Bury thy Face in the Grasses: flocks of angels Flower. 
are rustling 

before the shining steps, of the heavenly Bride- 
groom. 

Flesh and bark of the Tree, clasp one another 

as brothers! 
The quivering Birch, hath a streaming message 

for thee. 

Lower thine Eyes and pray, to the heart of the 
little Flower: 

guide thy Feet, over shadowy Plains and Moun- 
tains : 

Body to body, yield thy Flesh to my Dust and 
forgotten Flame. 



And, as the Poet doth hearken, the Sod saith: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
Flame of birth doth glow, in thine Heart and 

in mine. 

Spring doth arise in my bosom, in burning 

Fires of silence: 
It toucheth the winged Seed: she taketh root 

in me. 

Summer floweth in Light, and the mystery of 

Rains : 
she dreameth within my Dust, and I flower in 

Color. 

43 



Flower. And then cometh Autumn, rich in the yield my 
dream hath rendered : 
Fire gloweth deep, and lieth under my Body. 

And Winter bringeth slumber, unto the Flesh 

forsaken : 
she resteth under the hope, of the coming 

Spring. 

I say unto thee : thy Flesh and the Dust are the 

substance of Music : 
speed doth flower in stillness, into form. 

The Sons of the Morning, sing from thy starry 

Flesh 
unto the Daughters of Evening, under the 

starry Sod. 

Dust unto Dust doth sing, and Sod unto glow- 
ing Body: 

and one day thou shalt join, in my flaming 
Spring. 

Love the Dust, as thou dost love thy Beauty: 
one day thou shalt flower, in the Clay. 

And the hour cometh, when we shall arise in the 

morning, 
and flame on high, in the Light of the Morning 

Stars. 

44 



Then the Grasses sing: Flower. 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
Tides of laughter, flow in our veins and in 

thine. 

We are an emerald forest. The locust doth 
sing in our bowers. 
„ Lose thine Heart, in our shadowy green aisles. 

Breath of fragrance dreameth, under our shel- 
tered slumbers : 
even as incense, before the Face of the Father. 

We are the little crying, Flames of Earth, 
rising in song, through the stillness of brown 

Sod breaking 

■ 

reverently, in Fire of consuming worship 
mingled with Music of Color and whisper of 
Rain. 

Wind, weaveth our dance with the dance of the 

angels, 
rushing, in laughter of praise and adoration, 
down our curving lanes, and secret windings. 

Stillness of summer heat, in the golden noon- 
tide 
lieth deep, on our little thrusting blades, 
radiant and lithe, in the magic fragrance. 

And after the mystery, of veiling Rain, 
we are cool as joy, to thy shadowy Flesh. 

45 



Flower. "We play with the Seraphim, of thy Body's 
temple : 
we are the angels of Dust, to thee and thine. 



Then the Flowers in the Grasses sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
dance with us in wonder, before the Son. 

Low in the rumorous Grasses, we run from the 

Sod, 
even as thou, though remembrance doth pull on 

our heartstrings. 

Rain filleth our dreams, with forgotten Beauty, 
echoes of long ago, and departed Earth-flames. 

We are little Flowers, alone in the Grasses: 
we laugh, at the Sun and the Larks and the 
silver Clouds. 



Shy Light, doth flood through our azure veins: 
the fair Limbs of the Son, 

tremble with Beauty, and bloom in the song of 
our fragrance. 

Windy Waters, and streaming rivers of Air, 
inhale the Blossom, of the immortal Rose, 
spreading His Petals, over the dreaming star- 
light. 

46 



The naked Beauty, of thy glorious Flesh, Flower. 

mixeth Music with Clay, 

and we are born, in the image of her singing. 

And in the depths of our loveliness, sadder than 

Dust forsaken, 
Crucifixions flower, in ecstasy of abandon, 
Constellations call unto one another, in anguish 

of surrender, dying into the sound of Eternal 

Light. 



Then the Trees sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
hearken unto the choir, of our singing boughs. 

And if ever thine Heart hath longed, to return 

to the heart of thy Mother, 
come unto us and surrender, thy Body into our 

keeping, 
for we are the prayer of thy Mother, Earth, on 

the edge of Time. 

Arise in thy brown array, and join us in adora- 
tion, 
Body to body, under the sunny Leaves. 



Clasp our trunks, weaving the dance of spring- 
. light, 
ripple of Color, and curve of Limbs and boughs. 

47 



Flower. w e are the limit of Lands, high as the flaming 
angels, 
bowing and rushing with Wind, the Tides of 
sap in our branches, 

hushing at twilight, into the evening silence, 
breathless with wonder, under the midnight 
Stars. 

Tidings of Spring, circle under our surface, 
rising in summer Heat, and falling in autumn 

Color, 
darkling deep into Flame, in the winter stillness. 

Enter us, casting thine Heart behind thee : 
enter into our bosom, serene and unafraid. 

Forth from our branches glancing, Light shall 

glisten upon thee: 
Love shall wrap thee round, with the Flower of 

the living Flame. 



Then the Mountains sing: 

How thou art fair, O Flesh, with the fragrance 

of Light upon thee: 
turn thine Eyes unto our Beauty, gaze on high. 



Shadow stealeth away, from our slopes as the 

sunlight passeth, 
over the golden path, of the silent Ocean: 

48 



passeth over thy Flesh, reclining in azure pas- Flower. 
tures, 

passeth into the fieavens, dreaming of resur- 
rection. 

Out of the Dream which bore thee, into the 

Flame of Longing, 
thy Beauty passeth in Light, and flowing of 

Wind: 

into the woven Flower, of Light and Wind and 

Waters, 
out of thine holy Flesh, passeth the imaged 

Word. 

We are the fairest Fruit, of thy longing and 

aspiration : 
the mist of loveliness, exhaleth from our dreams. 

And we are thy Mother's breasts, rising and 

falling in Beauty, 
rich and fair, and soft in shapeliness. 

Lay thine Heart, on the heart of thy Mother, 

Earth : 
Breast to breast, enter into her silence, 
home from loneliness, and the foreign men. 

Lo ! thou art weeping ! Come, my tired child ! 
Come to thy Mother, and tell her thy little 

secrets ! 
Rest thine Head on my bosom ! Hush thee, and 

sleep ! 

49 



Flower. And the Poet saith in his Flesh: 

Now will I arise, and enter into thy Beauty: 
for I have loved thee, Flesh of my living Flesh. 

And if ever a prayer doth flower in thine Heart, 

to springs of remembrance, 
lull me to dreams, of the everlasting Spring. 

Bathe mine Eyes, in the crystal fountain of 

pity: 
give me to drink, of the silver Waters of Light. 

Lay on mine Heart, the compelling Flame of thy 

Music : 
strengthen my Will, to flower in liquid Fire; 

that I may touch the Hearts, of the foreign 

men: 

lead their Flame unto thine, from the foreign 

wars. , 



The Poet lieth silent in prayer for a little space. 
He turneth unto the Waters; then he saith: 

Far-flowing Waters of Earth, with the sorrow 

of Life in thy Music, 
under the ebb and flow, of thy passionate Waves 

and Tides: 

wild-singing Waters of Ocean, thundering Law 

eternal, 
on the strand of the silent Earth, who hearken- 

eth unto your cry: 

50 



why are you crying, crying, sobbing under your Flower. 

surges, 
weaving the warp and the woof, of the dying 

Waves ? 

And why, O Water-Brooks, with the merry 

shake in your laughter, 
why do you sing of joy, as you dance in the 

rippling sunlight? 

Teach me thy gracious poise, O Pool with the 

eyes of a child : 
bear me swiftly and far, through pastures of 

recollection, 
River of peace and Light, flowing unto the Tide. 

And O ye Lakes and Fountains, still as im- 
mortal silence, 
cast your mantle of grace, on my glowing Body. 

Water, cool and clear, fold thy fairness about 

me: 
wrap my flowering Flesh, in the sheath of thy 

candid Streams. 



And the Waters say to the Poet: 
Peace to thee, fair child. 

Dip thy Face in the Pool: her silver laughter 

shall whisper 
tidings unto thine Heart, of the lucid fountain 

of dreams. 

Si 



Flower. Set thy brown Feet in the Water-Brooks: the 
wings of thine angel are rustling 
before the shining steps, of the heavenly Bride- 
groom. 

Flesh and Light of the Lake, stroke one another 

as brothers: 
the quivering Waters, have a message for thee. 

Lower thine Eyes, to the marge of the brimming 

River : 
guide thy Feet, to the shores of the murmuring 

Ocean : 
Body to body, yield thy Flesh to my Tide and 

forgotten dream. 

And, as the Poet doth hearken, the Pool saith: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
how thine image is fair, in my placid Waters. 

Even as Light doth brood, in the Heart of my 

silences, 
so doth thine image reflect on my surface, the 

Form of the Son. 

The Spirit in thee, doth rest on the face of the 

Waters : 
creation floweth in circles, from thine Eyes. 

into my depths commit, the Flower of thy 

Body: 
we are at peace, in the mystery of twilight. 

52 



Love thy Beauty, and bow in adoration : Flower. 

lower thine Eyes and fear, for an angel hath 
troubled my surface, 

and lo! Christ walketh again, on the holy 

Waters : 
a Wind of angels hath passed, and all is still. 

Flaming with Love, awakened in white re- 
joicing, 
Color stealeth, across my lucid peace, 

dawneth in hues, rich as the soul of a Violet, 
fair as the veins, at the heart of a Folded Rose. 

Rejoice, O Earth and Sun, rejoice, O Airs and 

Grasses, 
the Flower of Color and Light, is born again 

in Time, 

the Mystical Rose hath blown, her petals open 

in wonder, 
Flesh doth flower in Light, and Water receiveth 

a Sign. 

Then the Water-Brook doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
hearken unto my song, of laughing joy. 

Brown Feet, brown Feet, come unto my shal- 
lows, 

Water lappeth your Ankles, arched in my crys- 
tal stream. 

53 



Flower. Dip thine Hands, in flowing silver Music: 
bathe thine Eyes, in euphrasy of sunlight. 

Floating, floating, Flower of golden noonday, 
glide along my currents, shadowing my Sands. 

Day is streaming past us, on into the sunrise, 
laugh and sing in moonlight, morning dawneth 
far. 

Cool as recollection, soft as meditation, 
Water floweth with thee, Time doth glide away. 

Far into the sunrise, Light and Water bear thee, 
home into the dawning, Flower unto Wind. 

The Morning Stars before us, the song of Larks 

above us, 
Wind in Flower flameth : the Son is on the Sky. 

Holy! holy! holy! flaming Flower of sunrise, 
how my Heart hath borne me, unto Ocean 
strands. 

Holy ! holy ! holy ! streaming Flesh in Flower, 
Light hath risen fresh, and floweth o'er the 
Lands. 



Then the Lake doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
dip thy Side, in my lonely rippling Light. 

54 



Thy Mother, Earth, lieth still, in the mystery Flower. 

of the Godhead : 
silence slowly trembleth, into passionate sound. 

Even as thou art, awful in Flesh and Flower, 
lay thine holy smoothness, upon my windless 
Waters. 

stir my dreaming stillness, with loveliness im- 
mortal : 

curve unto circling curve, weave the pattern of 
wonder : 

widening to spheres of Light, and singing 

rhythm, 
flowing into the sunset, Bridegroom unto the 

Bride, 
reverently touching, Flesh doth marry the Word. 

And O, if ever thine Heart hath longed, for 

Beauty white and eternal, 
fair as the Face of the Father, and sad as the 

Eyes of the Son, 

bury thy Love in my Skies, ensphered on my 

glowing Waters, 
yield thy passionate prayer, in lucid reflection : 
flower in Wind and Sky, and Color of Spring. 

April, April, laugheth upon my bosom: 
white April flowereth, in Blossom and Clouds 
of Spring: 

April, April, laugheth in flowery showers, 
holy April streameth, in Light before the King. 

55 



Flower. Then the Rivers sing: 



Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
lo ! we have journeyed together, out of the walls 

of Time. 

Dost thou recall the morning, under the blos- 

somy Branches, 
when we rejoiced together, as Galahad rode by? 

Out of the singing sunrise, Wind and Water 

streaming, 
Light fell on thine Eyelids, Dawn flowered in 

prayer. 

Flowers ran in gladness, through thy golden 
pastures, 

Flowers laughed and dreamed, within thy dawn- 
ing Eyes. 

Stars flew over our Flesh, Stars sang in our 

Blood, 
the angels bowed in awe, before thy flaming 

Throne. 

Instant as recollection, flowing over our Bosom, 
the Host arose in our Body, and there was 
silence in Heaven. 

And raising thy star-soft Eyes, they beheld the 

Feet of the Son, 
gently walking the Waters, clad with Flowers 

and Foam. 

56 



Flesh unto Flower of April, and Flame unto Flower. 

Autumn Wind, 
circling veins of Music, rose around the Son, 

Light with Beauty breathing, Body unto Body, 
Flame of Love consuming, Flesh and Flower in 
Tide, 

Lover clasping Lover, naked Bride and Bride- 
groom, 
Word and Flesh commingling, Eternity in Time. 



Then the Ocean doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
why art thou silent and still, in the Light of my 

murmurous Sands? 



Thine Heart hath led thy steps, to the ways of 

the Sea: 
down to the salt sea ways, out of shining 

pastures. 

I say unto thee, Arise ! thine hour hath come ! 
Plunge thy singing Limbs, in the roar of my 
surges ! 

Even as thy Flesh is pure, in the sight of the 

Father, 
enter into the prayer, of my living Waters. 

57 



Flower. Follow the land Wind, over the shining sun- 
path: 
bathe in unknown Seas, by forgotten Lands. 

Borne over streaming Waters, to far horizons, 
die into living Day, from singing Foam. 

Ebb on with me, across the sunset Tide, 
and float, beyond the Waters of the world, 

the Light of evening, slipping from thy Side, 
thy softened Voice, in waves of silence furled. 

Flow on, into the flaming morning wine, 
drowning the Land in Color. Then on high 

rise in thy candid innocence, and shine 
like to a poplar, straight against the Sky. 



And the Poet saith in his Flesh: 

Now will I arise, and enter into thy Beauty: 
for I have loved thee, Tide of the living Tide. 

And if ever a prayer doth flow from thine 

Heart, in waves of compassion, 
bear me away, into everlasting Summer. 

Bathe mine Eyes, in the azure Waters of purity: 
give me to drink, of the opal Waters of Light. 

Lay on mine Heart, the compelling flood of thy 

Music : 
strengthen my Will, to pour forth liquid Fire; 

58 



that I may touch the Hearts, who know thee Flower. 

not: 
lead them home to thee, from foreign strands. 



The Poet lieth silent in prayer again for a little 
space. He turneth unto the Airs of Heaven; 
then he saith: 

Far-flying Airs of Heaven, shrining the Son in 

silence, 
under the streaming Light, of your awful Arch, 

guardian angels, of Flesh and Flower and 

Foam, 
your eyes are fair and soft, as those of your 

Mother enskied. 



What are the words of the Winds, as they 
sweep through the Clouds and the Grasses? 

What do they sing to the Waters, that echo 
their sounding hymn? 

Prostrate in adoration, before the Host on thine 

altar, 
what is the heart of thy mystery, Light, O 

streaming Grail? 

And O thou flaming image, of naked pity, 
what dost thou say to mine Eyes, O Sun on 
high? 

59 



Flower. Teach me thy silver Music, O lady Moon, 

guiding the wanderer home, over shadowy 

Waters, 
shy as immortal loveliness, gone by. 

Wind, Light, Sun and Moon, and singing starry 

chorus, 
of whom do you dream, before the radiant 

Throne? 



And the Airs of Heaven say to the Poet: 
Peace to thee, dear child. 

Strip thy Flesh to the Wind: the rippling 

Breezes shall whisper 
tidings unto thine Heart, of the lucid fountain 

of dreams. 

Bare thy Body unto the Light : pinions of Flame 
are rustling 

before the shining steps, of the heavenly Bride- 
groom. 

Flesh and Flower of the Sun, mingle together 

as lovers : 
the quivering sunlight, hath a message for thee. 

Lower thine Eyes and pray, to the heart of our 

lady Moon : 
lift thine Heart, to the chant of the Morning 

Stars : 
Body to body, yield thy Flesh to our Light and 

forgotten Word. 

60 



And as the Poet doth hearken, the Winds sing: Flower - 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
hearken unto the Winds, that blow the Stars to 

Flame. 

Bend thine Ear unto the Winds, that bear thee 

forgotten tidings: 
unto the starry Winds, that bring thee tidings 

of joy. 

The sorrow, and the silence of dying worlds, 
cry unto thee from the Stars, O Flesh in Flower. 

Out of thine Heart doth flow, the Will of our 

restless journey: 
into thine Heart doth return, the answering 

message for thee. 

North, south, east, west, we bring thee the choir- 
ings of Heaven : 

we are the captains of Light, weaving the Morn- 
ing Stars. 

Arise in thy Light and come, with gladness over 
the evening: 

stream with us in joy, over the flaming ram- 
parts ! 

Bathed in the Music, of Planets in adoration, 
weave the web of the Stars, O Son of the 
Morning ! 

61 



Flower. All creation shall flow from thy flute, if thou 
dost breathe desire : 
play on thy trembling Flesh, in the Light of 
loveliness. 

Arise, O Flesh, in color, and warm with rosy 

wonder, 
enter into the chorus, guide the flaming hymn, 

till the Rose of the World shall flower, in 

ecstasy of abandon, 
and Light shall seal thine Eyelids, with the 

Wind of the Father's Eyes! 



Then Light doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
still, and whiter than morning on the Hills, 

smile on thy brother Light, who hovereth over 

thy fairness : 
silver Clouds of joy, are flocking across thy 

Bosom. 

Rippling streams of wonder, flow in thine azure 
channels : 

the soft transparence of evening, watcheth un- 
der thy Veins. 

Dream of windy Light, in the haunted Meadows: 
dream of sunlight, in flower across the Plain. 

62 



Behold! the Eyes of the Bridegroom, are smil- Flower. 

ing upon thee, 
lovely brimming Waters, of solitude. 

Thou art the Light, of the shadow-haunted 

Dayspring : 
thy Color floweth, in and out of the Firmament. 

Weave me into thy songs, and offer them unto 

the Father: 
so shall I not have woven, my song in vain. 

Dawn doth dream in thy pattern, to hidden 

flowerings : 
the secrecy of Night, curleth within thy Blood. 

Flaming Dust, awful in lonely Beauty, 
lend me thy nakedness, that I may die, 

and rising, fulfilled in Flesh, as the Will of the 

Father commandeth, 
I may shine in deed, as through thee I now 

shine in the Word. 



Then the Sun doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
come to me over the Waters, clad with Flowers 

and Foam. 

And if ever thy flaming Heart hath longed, for 

the flaming Heart of the Sun, 
come unto thy desire, visioned within thy Blood. 

63 



Flower. Rising in golden silence, out of thy mother 
Night, 
the pure and shimmering Host, shineth over the 
silver Waters, 

setting in golden Music, into the clouded West, 
passionate with awe, before the burning Grail. 

Thy Body uplifteth my Light, as a monstrance 

over the Waters : 
thou art within my arms, as the Word in the 

Tabernacle. 

Arise, my Love, my Dove, and shine forth over 

the heavens : 
Arise, my Love, and come, to the nest of the 

Wind and Stars. 

Arise in thy brown array, from the Sod and the 
murmurous Grasses: 

Arise from the branching Boughs, and the whis- 
pering ways of the Forest. 

Arise from the laughing Brooks, and the 

haunted Pools of silence : 
arise, my Dove, and come, to the fountain of the 

Dayspring. 

Arise in thy glowing Flesh, from the streaming 

Rivers of morning: 
arise from the passionate Waters, in Light and 

laughter of Flame. 

64 



For behold ! the Bridegroom cometh, across the Fl ™ er - 

still Airs of twilight: 
He cometh unto the Bride, in Wind and whisper 

of Rain. 

Then the Moon doth sing: 

Brother Flesh, with the fair delight of thy 

Beauty upon thee, 
I am thine image in loneliness, I am thy guarded 

dream. 

I am the kindness of Time, shining over eternal 

forests : 
tender as maiden prayer, and gentler than 

adoration. 

Dost thou recall, the earliest hint of Autumn : 
the first faint coolness, of recollected evenings? 

Out of thy Body trembled, the ripple of moon- 
light Waters, . 
rich and very full, with the silent promise of 

harvest. 

Then rest thee, rest thee, softly in thy slumbers : 
white Light shall cradle, all thy flowing Limbs. 

Light upon thy Bosom, lieth gently sleeping: 
floodeth all thy visions, with the flight of wings. 

Light along thine Arms, runneth to thy Fingers : 
the Flower of Beauty bloweth, in the windy 
Airs. 

65 



Flower. Light in thy Flesh, and thy Blood, chaunteth her 
starry secrets : 
Light in thy veined Eyes, dreameth of resur- 
rection. 

Light ! Light ! Light ! dying in Color and Music ! 
Light on the fragrant Shore ! Light in the Stars 
and the Sod! 

Light running over thy foamy Side, laughing 

and dreaming in Color ! 
Light lying still on thy Flesh, the naked Shadow 

of God! 

Then the Morning Stars arise and sing: 

How thou art fair, O Flesh, with the fragrance 

of Light upon thee ! 
We bow with Heaven and Earth, before thy 

flaming Throne. 

Lift thine Eyes and smile ! The Stars on the 

windless Waters, 
veil their faces before thee, O shadow of Light 

in Time ! 

Arise, O daughters of Evening, under the starry 

Sod! 
Proclaim to the silent Airs, the rumor of 

heavenly Spring! 

The Winter is over and gone: the Seed doth 

flower in the heavens : 
unfurl upon the Sky, the banner of the Stars ! 

66 



For lo! the holy Dove, flieth over the listening P^wer. 

Waters : 
the breathless Airs, are rumorous with wings ! 

Flame in the frozen Earth, O budding Flowers 

of springlight! 
Rise in your green delight, and hail the risen 

King! 

Flame in the crying surges, secret Tides of 

April ! 
Cover the Land with Foam, and laughter of 

living Spring! 

Flame in the heights and the deeps, Wind and 

Waters obeying! 
Flame on the Hills and the Plain ! Flame on the 

dreaming Snows ! 

Flame, O Sun and Moon! Flame, expiring 

Planets ! 
Flame with the Seraphim, in the heart of the 

Mystical Rose! 

Flame, O Death and Birth, in the Body's pas- 
sionate wars ! 

Flame, O Word made Flesh, in the Light of the 
Morning Stars! 



And the Poet saith in his Flesh: 

Now will I arise, and enter into thy Beauty: 
for I have loved thee, Light of the living Light. 

67 



Flower. And if ever a prayer doth flame in thine Heart, 
to fires of Love, 
bear me away, into everlasting Day. 

Bathe mine Eyes, in the healing Waters of 

Beauty : 
give me to drink, of the living Waters of Life. 

Lay on mine Heart, the compelling Flower of 

thy Music; 
strengthen my Will, to flame in liquid Fire ; 

that I may touch the Hearts, who live in Time : 
lead them home to the Light, from foreign 
plains. 

And his Flesh saith unto the Poet: 

Flower and Flesh are fair, as thou dost create 

their Beauty : 
dream of Flesh and Flower, in the image of the 

Word. 

Flower shadoweth Flesh, as Flesh doth shadow 

the Word: 
be thou pure and create, Earth and Waters and 

Sky. 

Then the little Flower saith: 

Brother Poet, with the fair delight of thy beau- 
tiful Flesh, 

behold ! I have told thee the song, thy Body and 
Soul have woven, 

out of Earth and Water, and windy Airs of 
Time. 

68 



I am the golden shadow, of thy Spirit: Flower. 

gaze in my shining cup, and thou shalt see 
the image of thy Beauty, in its petals. 

And even as thou art Body and Blood, in the 

Image 
of the Sacred Body incarnate, of the Son, 

so is thy daughter Nature, born of thy dreaming, 
Body and Blood in thine image, Color and Light. 

Out of my tiny heart, thine Eyes shall see 
the Sacred Body, pulsing in starry tune, 
if thou art pure and humble, as a Flower. 

The Beauty of Sea and Sod, and flowering Sky, 
is the trembling, of thy Beauty's adoration, 
dreaming of thine own loveliness, in Time. 

And adoration, flowereth in Matter, 

whose awful motion, hardeneth into stillness. 

For I say unto thee that thine Eyes, may not 

see the speed of thy weaving, 
and live to know, thy naked loveliness. 

And I say unto thee, 

that Nature is nought but the Word, of thy 

Body's emanation 
uttered eternally, on the shores of Time. 

But the meaning of that Word, is long forgotten, 
till passion of dying Beauty, createth Flame. 

69 



Flower. Arise in thy Body's passion, of creation, 
clothing itself in images, as God 

doth clothe His Body, through all eternity, 
in the passion of naked Beauty, and dying 
worlds. 

Spell thy Body, upon the flaming Sky, 

spell it in adoration, upon the Stars, 

spell it in Earth and Waters, and windy Airs, 

and lo ! their Beauty, shall tremble in thine 

image, 
and the speed of thy dreams, shall harden into 

Form. 

Give thy Body gladly, with a prayer, 

till Life turns inward, to the heart of silence. 

So shalt thou at last, know white horizons. 

Gaze at Sun and Sod, in contemplation; 
smile at Beauty gladly, Face to face, 
twin mirrors, of a single singing Dream. 

Let the white magic, of thine holy Music, 
weave Woods and Fountains, in thy Body's 
prayer. 

For the day is nigh, when thy Morning Stars 

shall sing 
their lives away with thee, to the Living God. 
70 



The Poet remaineth silent in adoration. Then he Flower. 
saith : 

Peace to thee, O Flower of my living Flesh. 

Mine Heart doth utter thy Music, 

and my Mouth doth give voice to thy song. 

Even as yesternoon my Flesh hath told me, the 

Word of my Body, naked and unashamed : 
so have f shaped thy Beauty, in the Image 
of the Son whose Shadow shineth, in Flesh and 

J' lower. 



And he prayeth unto the Father and the Son and the 
Holy Ghost: 

I give Thee thanks, that Thou hast woven from 

me, 
the Flower of Thy living Image, in my Flesh; 

and even as my Flesh doth flower, in Sun and 

Wind and Waters, 
uttering the Second Syllable, of Thy Word, 

let the Flower of Thy Grace shine in mine 
Heart, and open its petals over the arching 
heavens; 

for the Word becometh Flesh, and dwelleth 
within me. 



71 



LYRICS. 



THE WHISPER OF EARTH. 
A Lucien Rolmer. 

IN the misty hollow shyly greening branches 
Soften to the south wind, bending to the rain. 
From the moistened earthland flutter little whispers, 
Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain. 

Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses, 
Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring, 
Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness, 
Little crying wind-sounds come before the King. 

Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus, 
Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone, 
Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily, 
God has heard the earth-cry and journeys to His 
throne. 



IRISH. 

To Bliss Carman. 

MY father and mother were Irish, 
And I am Irish, too ; 
I pipe you my bag of whistles, 
And it is Irish, too. 

75 



Irish. 'T will sing with you in the morning, 
And play with you at noon, 
And dance with you in the evening 
To a little Irish tune. 



For my father and mother were Irish, 
And I am Irish, too; 
And here is my bag of whistles, 
For it is Irish, too. 



THE MESSENGER. 

To Algernon Blackwood. 

SPRING on his eyelids, 
And spring on his heart, 
The sunlight of April 
Set him apart. 

Fairer than twilight, 
And softer than dew, 
The goal of his longing 
He never knew. 

But once in the evening 
When earth lay in prayer, 
A breeze from the westward 
Stole over his hair. 

7$ 



TO THE FOREST WAYS. 

To Walter de la Mare. 

I 

FAIR-WINGED angel of the dreaming trees, 
Adoring power of loneliness and light, 
From out the forest of thy memories 
The mystery of twilight streameth bright. 
Thine eyes are soft with laughter, heaven above 
Haunteth thy presence with her rich repose, 
Where woodways, rumorous with silence, free 
The starry-bodied dove, 

Whose quivering worship, like stilled music, flows 
Into the distant heart of ecstasy. 

II 

There is a magic spell upon the wind, 

As though all dust were flaming into sound. 

The brooding hour of slumber now doth bind 

Wild beauty into pattern on the ground, 

Whilst thou, the mother of auspicious sleep 

And sacred dreaming, bendest over sod 

And leaf and bud in fond solicitude, 

And where dim shadows leap, 

Hushed wings reveal the passing of a god 

Across the forest's rustling solitude. 

Ill 

I fly with thee far down the forest ways, 

Immortal stillness dripping from the leaves, 

To lie with thee eternal nights and days 

Beneath the boughs the flooding moonlight grieves, 

77 



To the For- And waken with white fragrance on the wind, 
ays. »p o j lear t j le rus ] 1 j n g Q f ^he cres ted trees 

Along the flowing furrows of the air, 

But turn in vain to find 

The vision vanished where the distance frees 

The ancient path that lures me where, oh, where? 



THE PIPING MOUNTAINY MAN. 

To Josephine Peabody Marks. 
S I came over the April hills 
And over the April plain, 
I saw a twinkle of white-limbed boys 
In a shower of April rain. 



A : 



A drift of shining fair-limbed boys 
In the light of an April shower 
Were dancing around a mountainy man 
Like the petals of a flower. 

A wind came over the April hills 
And over the April rain; 
The sunlight laughed from an April cloud 
And the Spring laughed back again. 

The mountainy man arose and piped 
A skirling on the wind, 
And the drift of shining white-limbed boys 
Came skipping along behind. 

78 



They followed him over the meadows, Tj? e Pt P} n z 
And sang by the running rills, Man. 

And danced with him in the sunlight, 
And laughed with him on the hills, 



Till they came to the edge of the ocean, 
And ran to the end of the lea, 
Where they dance on the rippling waters, 
And run on the sands of the sea. 



HOMEWAYS. 

To Fiona. 

WIND from the waters 
And light from the foam 
Through the branches of alder 
Shall beckon thee home. 



In the sigh of the twilight, 
The dropping of dew 
Shall soften thy knowledge, 
And shape it anew 



To a vessel of wonder, 
A cup of desire, 

W/arm ixn-f-Ti fViv ■fraerranrp 



Warm with thy fragrance 
And white in thy fire. 

79 



ROMANY LOVE SONG. 

To Roy Mortimer Newman. 

SPRINKLE dew from the sky 
On the eyes of thy love. 
Scatter light from on high 
On the wings of the dove. 

Dark is the town, 
And dark are its men, 
But white shining down 
Are the stars of the glen. 

Lay thy brown body 
To brown earth's breast. 
Dust unto dust cometh 
Seeking its rest. 



LIGHT TRANSMUTED. 

WHITE wind and a flame 
'Twixt a breath and a breath, 
And the silence of foam 
From the caverns of death. 

A flood in our veins 

Of lilies and light, 

And the rushing of rains 

Through the stillness of night. 

Light from the waters 
Is veiling the skies : 
She laughs with the flowers 
That dream in her eyes. 

80 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
To Grace Clark. 
SAW him naked on a hill 
Above a world of gold, 
And coming by, so still, so still, 
The sheep within his fold. 



I 



He strode along that golden air, 
A rosy-bodied fool, 
With wonder-dripping dreams as fair 
As starlight in a pool. 



He sang of old, forgotten springs 
Of worship in the sky, 
And longing passionate with wings, 
And vision that must die. 



His body and his spirit glowed 
For joy that they were one, 
And from his heart the music flowed 
Into the setting sun. 



I hurried as the light grew dim, 
And left him far behind, 
Yet still I heard his joyous hymn 
Come faintly down the wind. 



81 



I 



MAGIC. 

To W. S. B. 

RAN into the sunset light 
As hard as I could run: 
The treetops bowed in sheer delight 
As if they loved the sun: 
And all the songs of little birds 
Who laughed and cried in silver words 
Were joined as they were one. 



And down the streaming golden sky 

A lark came circling with a cry 

Of wonder-weaving joy: 

And all the arch of heaven rang 

Where meadowlands of dreaming hang 

As when I was a boy. 



And through the ringing solitude 
In pulsing lovely amplitude 
A mist hung in a shroud, 
As though the light of loneliness 
Turned pure delight to holiness, 
And bathed it in a cloud. 



I stripped my laughing body bare 
And plunged into that holy air 
That washed me like a sea, 
And raced against its silver tide 
That stroked my eager glancing side 
And made my spirit free. 
82 



Across the limits of the land Magic. 

The wind and I swept hand in hand 

Beyond the golden glow. 

We danced across the ocean plain 

Like thrushes singing in the rain 

A song of long ago. 

And on into the silver night 

We strove to win the race with light 

And bring the vision home, 

And bring the wonder home again 

Unto the sleeping eyes of men 

Across the singing foam. 

And down the river of the world 

Our glowing limbs in glory swirled 

As spring within a flower, 

And stars in music of delight 

Streamed gayly down our shoulders white 

Like petals in a shower. 

And tears of awful wonder ran 

Adown my cheeks to hear the clan 

Of beauty chaunting white 

The prayer too deep for living word 

Or sight of man or winging bird 

Or music over forest heard 

At falling of the night. 

And dropping slowly as the dew 
On grasses that the winds renew 
In urge of flooding fire, 
And softly as the hushing boughs 
The gentle airs of dawn arouse 
To cradle morning's quire, 

83 



Magic. The murmur of the singing leaves 
Around the secret Flame, 
Like mating swallows 'neath the eaves, 
In rustling silence came, 
And flowing through the silent air 
Creation fluttered in a prayer 
Descending on a spiral stair 
And calling me by name. 

It nestled in my dreaming eyes 

Like heaven in a lake, 

And softened hope into surprise 

For very beauty's sake, 

And silence blossomed into morn 

Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn 

Could scarcely bear to break. 

I sang into the morning light 

As loud as I could sing, 

The treetops bowed in sheer delight 

Before a slanting wing, 

And all the songs of little birds 

Who laughed and cried in silver words 

Adored the Risen Spring. 



SONG. 

To Padraic Colum. 

FAIR body, flower not in vain, 
Nor let thy beauty rust, 
When April flowers and April rain 
Renew thy dreaming dust. 

84 



Let passion vanish down the sky Song. 

And flame consume desire, 
Until the morning stars on high 
Shall hymn thy beauty's fire. 

So shalt thou bud in April rain 
And bloom in April dust : 
Fair body, flower not in vain, 
Nor let thy beauty rust. 



TO AN APRIL SKYLARK. 

To L. I. G. 

N thy soft-limbed cherry-tree 
Blossoming beside the sea, 
Art thou laughing at a cloud? 
Thy mate is circling silver-loud. 



I 



The golden-petalled cup of dawn 
Hath never held a whiter morn 
Mirrored in a skylark's eyes 
Twinkling silver-soft surprise. 

Laughing down a merry hill 
Every ray doth beauty spill. 
White and singing from the sun 
The happy streams of beauty run. 

Little honey-haunted throat, 
Cease thy golden-fluted note. 
By the silence of the sea 
In thy dreaming cherry-tree 

85 



\lTt* ril Mingle wonder with thy song. 
, yar ' Love be silent, life is long. 

Then thy music in a prayer 

Shall soften all the singing air 

Into wonder white as thine, 
White as dreams within a shrine, 
Clear as music from a cloud. — 
So thy song saith silver-loud. 

Oxford Meadows, Eastertide, 1914. 

THE BRIM. 

To Burton Kline. 

HE lay on the edge of the morning 
And laughed at the ocean lands, 
And all the light from the dayspring 
Was brimming in his hands. 

Wind from the flowering starlight 
Rippled over his heart. 
The veins of his flaming body 
Sang apart. 

For all that day of wonder 
Flesh and flower lay still, 
While color sighed on his eyelids, 
And clouds slipped over the hill. 

And still in the golden evening 
He lay with the dreaming sun, 
Till the wind stole away from his body, 
And the night and he were one. 
86 



A SONG FOR TWILIGHT. 
To Katherine. 

SLEEP, little poppy, 
And rest from thy play. 
All things in twilight 
Are dreaming of day. 



The wind in the cavern, 
The star on the cloud, 
The mist in the valley, 
The maid in the shroud. 



The trees on the sky, 
And the bird in the nest, 
The dew on the flower, 
And thou on my breast. 



ARAN SLUMBER SONG. 
To L. I. G. 

ANGELS below me, 
Angels above, 
Over my eyelids 
A slender white dove. 

Uiril before me, 
Michael behind, 
The silence of honey 
And dew on the wind. 

87 



Aran Slum- Rustling of swallows 
Lulls me to sleep 
From the crown of my head 
To the soles of my feet. 

Softly I slumber 
Whatever betide. 
The white body of God 
Lies down at my side. 



SMOORING SONG. 

To Louis Albert Lamb. 
BUILD me the hearth 
Of the Mother of God 
Who guardeth the floor 
And watcheth the sod. 



I 



Who shines on the road 
But Michael the fair? 
Who smiles at the door 
But Brigid of the hair? 

Who stands on the floor 
But Peter and Paul? 
Who bends o'er my head 
But the Shepherd of all? 

An angel hath charge 
Of the hearth and the byre 
Till white day shall come 
To the ash of the fire, 
Till white day shall come 
To the ash of the fire. 
88 



O 1 



MICHAEL PAT. 

To Anna Hempstead Branch. 

|LD Michael Pat he said to me 
He saw an angel in a tree. 
He knew I 'd never, never doubt him, 
For what would Heaven be without them. 
The angel laughed for very glee 
And sang out loud : " Heigh ! come with me ! " 
Old Michael felt a creeping kind 
Of wonder in his humble mind, 
And, hardly knowing what to say, 
Ran where the angel showed the way. 
The lambs were running on the hills, 
Glad laughter echoed from the rills, 
And many hidden little birds 
Talked pleasant things in singing words. 
He followed up a mountain then 
And saw a crowd of singing men 
Approaching to a Crown of Light 
Wherein they took a fresh delight. 
He danced and sang and whooped and crew 
To see the Lord of all he knew 
Surrounded by the living songs 
Of stars and men in countless throngs, 
And then he died to life again, 
And shovelled with the strength of ten. 
He taught me how to say my letters, 
And take my hat off to my betters, 
And when I asked for fairy stories, 
He told me of angelic glories. 
He was a lovely farmer, he 
Had seen an angel in a tree. 



89 



A CHRISTMAS WHISTLE. 

For Florence and " Grattan." 

ROTHER sun and brother wind 
And brother dust and I 
Are travelling to Bethlehem 
To learn why thrushes sigh. 



B 



The grey-eyed wizard of the rain 
Will lead us to the King, 
And He will teach us with a smile 
The song the robins sing. 

Whistle, robin, in the tree, 
Life is but a puddle, 
Stirred with starlight white as He 
Bards to beauty- fuddle. 

Dance around the holly-bush 
And sing into the fire 
Like the sleepy shepherd-boys 
In Baby Jesus' byre. 

Ring-a-round-a-rosy, 
Lilies at your feet, 
Snowdrops for a posy, 
Grasses for a seat. 

Sing a merry chorus 
To the tragic play. 
White wings rustle o'er us, 
And it is Christmas Day. 

90 



THE WHITE MAID OF BALLINASLOE. 

To Seumas O'Brien. 

WHITE Tearlach rose from his couch of silk 
In the morning bright and early, 
And he 's taken his steed as white as milk, 
And he 's mounted strong and burly. 

He travelled over the fields of green 
And over the bright blue water 
And through the haunted forest's sheen 
To steal the king's shining daughter. 

He whistled high and he whistled low 
And he whistled soft and cheery, 
But he 's not come to Ballinasloe, 
And he 's not got my dearie. 

For when sunlight came at the dawn of day 
And the thrushes' call was merry, 
Then Mary and I went gallop away 
To the tune of " Whistling Jerry." 

Galloped away to the wattled church 
On the hillside by the ferry, 
Where Mary and I left him in the lurch 
To the tune of " Whistling Jerry." 

I gave her a ring at the dawn of day 

In the church there by the ferry. 

The mass-priest joined us, then off and away 

To the tune of " Whistling Jerry." 

91 



Tf e -^f ie He 's come to the ferry beside the hill 
BaUinasloe. On his milk-white steed for Mary, 
But for all we care he is riding still 
To the tune of " Whistling Jerry." 



From the dawn of day to sunset light 
He galloped strong and burly, 
Astride of his steed so milky white, 
But we were away too early. 

We whistled high and we whistled low 
And we whistle soft and cheery, 
For he 's not come to BaUinasloe, 
And he 's not got my dearie. 



SONG. 

MY heart is full of laughing birds 
That sing and sing and sing. 
They rustle under silver words 
And flash a gleaming wing. 

My soul is full of cloistered bells 
That ring and ring so cool, 
Of stars that shine in dreaming wells 
Or nestle in a pool. 

My eyes were full of shining tears : 
I trembled in the grass. 
I mind the day. Alas ! 't is years ! — 
But will he never pass? 

93 



OFF CHATHAM BARS. 

IGHT, and the cry of the wild dove flying 
Over the pathless sunset home, 
Out of the mist of sighing waters 
Into the silent dying foam. 



L 1 



Nightfall slowly hushing to stillness, 
Murmur of shingle slipping down, 
Throbbing pulse of the passionate spirit 
Brooding over the sleeping town. 

The veins of the world are flooding inward, 
Earth-flame curls in the running blood, 
And flesh, an island in chartless oceans, 
• Scourged by the lash of the flying scud, 

Flowers in stars of adoration, 
Chaunting loud to the singing tide, 
Wind and moon and waters obeying, 
Bridegroom flaming unto the Bride. 



ARAN CRADLE SONG. 
To John Joseph Phillips. 

HUSH thee, my treasure, a glow in thy flesh, 
Ariel guards thee, weaving a mesh 
Of dreaming and laughter and wonder and flowers 
To blow in thine heart in the shining white hours. 

A spreading green pasture beneath thy fair feet, 
The song of a skylark thy waking to greet, 
The bloom of ripe cherries shall smile on thy lips, 
Like the smile on the sea where the white sail dips. 

93 



Aran Cradle Ah ! rock thee to sleep by the surge of the sea, 



Song 



Too soon will the waters thy cradling be, 
Already the gray winds have sung in thy heart 
The message that thou and thy mother shall part. 

Thy father's dark curagh went down in the sound, 
Thou wast born on the morning his stocking was 

found, 
But hush thee, my white love, hush thee to sleep, 
When they keened me the tidings mine eyes did not 

weep. 

The lure of the sea shineth cold in thine eyes, 

Wild as the wind and deep as the skies, 

We bear thee in pain at the call of the waves, 

Our passionate sons whom we keen on their graves. 

But hush, little son, in thy cradle so low, 
May God his white pity to white mothers show, 
Hush thee, my treasure, thy night will be soon, 
For the waters are waking and high is the moon. 



THE SHROUD. 

To Brigid MacDonagh of Inishmaan. 

STORM of waters overhead, 
Moaning winds beyond the door, 
Weaving linen for the dead, 
Slipping gently on the floor, 

Stitching in and stitching out, 
Waves of ocean roaring loud, 
Stitching round and round about, 
Weaving linen for a shroud. 

94 



Keening, swaying, crooning low, The Shroud. 
Dull red ashes on the fire, 
Stitching linen white as snow, 
Wrinkled hands that never tire. 

Waves upon a beaten strand, 
A stocking floating on the kelp, 
Tossed upon the foaming sand, 
A knitted stocking cries for help. 

Drifting in and drifting out, 
Laughing waves upon the shore, 
Drifting round and round about 
From Donegal to Aranmor. 

Seven weeks and seven more, 
Floating on a slipping wave 
From Donegal to Aranmor, 
Crying, crying for a grave. 

A dark and dripping thing to see, 
Upon the foaming sunlit sand, 
A sightless fisher from the sea, 
A broken oarlock in his hand. 

Keening, swaying, crooning low, 
Tottering across the crags, 
Bearing linen white as snow, 
A poor old woman on the flags. 

A poor grey woman does be old 
Kneeling on the sunny stones, 
A poor grey breast that does be cold 
(A dying wind, the tide that moans,) 

95 



The Shroud. Wraps him over, wraps him under, 
(Light is weeping from a cloud,) 
Wraps him round in helpless wonder 
With the linen of his shroud. 



THE LAST PIPER. 

To Walter Conrad Arensberg. 
^ARK winds of the mountain, 
White winds of the sea, 
Are skirling the pibroch 
Of Seumas an Righ. 



D 



The crying of gannets, 
The shrieking of terns, 
Are keening his dying 
High over the burns. 

Grey silence of waters, 
And wasting of lands, 
And the wailing of music 
Down to the sands. 

The wailing of music, 
And trailing of wind, 
The waters before him, 
The mountains behind. 

Alone at the gathering, 
Silent he stands, 
And the wail of his piping 
Cries over the lands 

06 



To the moan of the waters, The Last 

The drone of the foam, 
Where his soul, a white gannet, 
Wings silently home. 



THE LAMENT AT THE WEDDING. 

-(After the Scottish Gaelic.) 

I WILL sit here and crouch and wait, nor am I gay, 
At the foot of the Brown Hillock, where I, a 
girl, grew grey: 
I, a poor silly girl, and great were my lover's vows. 
They have taken him away from my lonely wee glen 

of boughs, 
The wee glen of cuckoos, and rushes on the ground. 
It is there in the folds the drifting herds are found, 
And fair maidens fending the new-born calves from 

death, 
And stooping down in kindness they blow on them 

their breath. 
It is there are nuts and rowans, where the wind is 

blowing south, 
And they, love, with the taste of honey on thy mouth. 
Brown nuts that hang there upon the hazel tree, 
And I, love, to gather them, to gather them with 

thee. 
A thousand shrouds on my friends, that death may 

steal them with his blast, 
They not to have left me to seal thy beauty fast. 
It is they put clouds around us, the way we were 

naked fools, 
Would be having not a penny to sit on alehouse 

stools. 

97 



The Lament The one would tell that story, let it choke him in his 

at the , , 

Wedding. mouth, 

And his cattle let them wither in the bitter summer 

drouth. 
Threescore white-shouldered cows are breathing in 

thy fold, 
Threescore dark-grey cows at Rannoch's foot are 

told, 
And thine in any green field a rich herd of mares, 
Threescore of goats, and white sheep in pairs. 
Gley-eyed John they called thee, and all their bodies 

shook, 
And yet, to my thinking, kind was thy look. 
The slope of thy cheek like the sea-gull, thy two 

sides like the swan, 
Thy kiss was sweet as apples, thy breath of 

cinnamon. 
Thy wedding night is making thee a fine and manly 

man 
With four-and-twenty gallants drinking from a can, 
With thy elegant maidens, in linen and in silk, 
To laugh and to praise thee, and they as white as 

milk. 
But should I get no more of thee, it 's this that I will 

say, 
Come now and invite me to thy wedding day, 
To the wedding of the youth, whom I fancied more 

or less, 
Though maybe I 'd be laughing to keep them from a 

guess. 
And a pair of gloves thou 'It buy me, and linen for 

a shroud 
The night I 'd be dancing with all the wedding crowd, 

. 98 



And a coffin of the ash for a cover under ground, 1^ ament 
And thou shalt know in truth then where I can be Wedding. 

found, 
And wherever thou shalt go then, ah ! but I will pray- 
That gladness may go with thee, though it's I that 

am grey! 



HELLENICA. 

To John Gould Fletcher. 

I 

UNDER the foaming sky with cloud-capped 
horses, 
I, a maiden, lie by the windy ocean, 
Dreaming of quiet waters 
Guarded by willows. 

II 
The flowering side of my love was fair at dawn. 
I fled in the grayness. 

Ill 

Whither streams the windy hair of the night? 
Water plashes drop by drop in the courtyard, 
And I lie alone. 

IV 

Sigh not, stranger. 
Here lies white Melitta. 
The haunted music of Pan 
Makes music in the woodways. 

99 



Hellenica. V 

Water does not whisper 
Beside my bower. 
It dreams of Hylas 
Prisoned within a prayer. 

VI 

Pearl-fishers searching the opal waters, 

Found this maiden 

At rest on the ocean sands, 

And raise this mound by the sighing water-waves 

To grey-dreaming 

Alcina. 

VII 
Here in peace 
Under the swaying olive 
Lieth Paula 
Who loved the blossoming hillside. 

VIII 
Flowing light 
Runs 

Over my eyelids. 
For I am Hylas 
Praying in the springtime. 
Sprinkle apple blossoms on my pillow. 

IX 

Foam is all they left me for my dreaming, 
I who outfled the sun in the race at Corinth, 
Hermippus, fleet of foot, 
And flower-hearted. 

ioo 



X Eellenica. 

Here Glycine rests, under the willows, 
Whom men remember after death has forgotten. 
Her breasts were fairer than apples in autumn 
sunlight. 

XI 
Myrrhis, who tended the flocks on the misty hillside, 
Lies softly here, above the trodden pathway, 
For she would not hear the steps of her lover, Bion. 

XII 

Here in the pastured plains 

Dreams in azure stillness Daphne, a maiden. 

Her throat was softer than light and honey-haunted. 

XIII 
Low by the aged rocks of the bearded ocean, 
Baucis, child of the sky, 
Rests awaiting the touch of her mother, Rhodis. 

XIV 
Over the soft-veiled sea 
The wind from the south brings showers 
To the grave of Argive Helen, 
Whose loveliness lies forgotten in dusty ways. 

XV 

Under the morning star 
In a silver urn 

Lieth all that remains of Heraclitus, 
Whose eyes beheld the mystery of change. 

101 



Eellenica. XVI 

Slumber lies grey on the eyes of Clytie, 

Who flowered for a day on the breast of her mother, 

Then took the way to Acheron alone. 



XVII 

Flowing limbs have fled to murmurous sod. 

The swallows fly from her silent couch of grasses, 

But when they return in the springtime they tell to 

Erinna 
How light dreams vainly of her 
In the blue hills of Thessaly. 



XVIII 

Star-crowned Artemis dreamed of Melitta's fairness. 

Now here the maiden lies, 

For the dreams of a goddess ever become immortal. 

XIX 

Hyacinth spears now spring from the grave of 

Daphne, 
Wounding the heart of Cleon, 
Who tends his flocks on the hill where her feet once 

lingered. 

XX 

Here on this wave-washed island, 
White as the dreams of her mother, 
Lies a Samian maiden 
Who knew only the work of her loom. 

102 



XXI Hellenica. 

Myrto laughed with the swallows in the springlight. 
She followed them, and now her childish prattle 
Wakens dusty dreams in old shades of Hades. 



XXII 

The light of Paula's voice has left the sunshine. 
Now in the halls of Persephone running gayly 
She greets her mother, Helen, 

For swift is the way of a child to the breast that 
warms her. 

XXIII 

Amyntychus, who turned the brown earth tenderly, 
Now lies one with the sod which rests lightly above 

him, 
For they were friends for threescore years and ten. 



XXIV 
The breath of the west wind soothes him to golden 

slumber, 
Daphnis, whose shepherd pipe in the summer breezes 
Wove refreshing dreams by the plashing fountain. 
The leaves whisper his name to the running water. 



XXV 

Crethis, who rivalled the nightingale in passion, 
Went to dust in the month of budding laurel, 
Crowned with music of unforgotten pain. 

103 



Eeltenica. XXVI 

Cleon does not forget the gentle footsteps 
Of Scylla, his little maiden, 

Who returns no more unto her father's dwelling, 
But walks the long descent into the silence 
.Tired and alone. 

XXVII 

Rhodoclea, whose body veiled the sun, 
Has fallen into shadow 
Under the grasses. 

XXVIII 
Plato's passion troubled Timon's soul. 
His body followed beauty to the end. 
Sunlight sifts across his earthy bed. 

XXIX 

Slumber fell upon the gentle eyelids 
Of sweet Theonoe upon the mountain. 
When she awoke the cicala was mourning 
Down in the valley. 

XXX 

Callista, who loved the airs of the open spaces, 
Fell asleep upon her wedding day. 

XXXI 

Here lies, in rapture of contemplation, 
Hylas, who went away, 
And followed the morning star. 
104 



XXXII Hellenica. 

Maidenly Bacchis wove her wedding tunic. 
Now it lies in the dust 
That clasps her loveliness. 

XXXIII 

White-dreaming Pasiphae 
Wanders clad in her beauty- 
Through the dusky meadows of Persephone. 



XXXIV 

Anyte, who dissolveth into silence, 
Lieth under the flowers of Thessaly, 
Fresher than the dew of the eager morning. 



XXXV 

Myrrha, whose body was clearer than light on water, 
Remembers not her beauty 
In the stillness. 

XXXVI 

The scent of mint on the sandy grave of Nicias 
Cries unto the wanderer 
For remembrance. 

XXXVII 
Here in the arms of the harvest 
Lies the gleaner, Bion, 
Whose sickle shines above him in the evening. 

105 



Eellenica. XXXVIII 

Far from tides and sand 

On the slope of Cithseron 

Resteth Eumenes 

In the purple distance. 

His fellow tunny-fishers erect this stone. 

XXXIX 

Chaste Clearista flowers in the heavens, 

For dearer than Helen's beauty in April sunlight 

The gods love the spotless dreams of a maiden. 

XL 

Fairer than iris blossoms slenderly swaying 
Under the sighing zephyrs of sandy Argos, 
The harvest breezes stole the heart of Erinna. 
Now she dreams under the meadow grasses. 

XLI 

The swan afloat on the rippling azure waters 
Has memory of your fairness, Rhododaphne, 
And dreams upon time's surface of your passing. 

XLII 

Nerissa played with the swallows till the twilight. 
Now they soar above her, 
And they wonder. 

XLIII 

Far from Cos where the sailors hail in passing, 
Cleonicus lies unmarked on the ocean strand. 
The crying gulls bring tidings of ancient summer, 
But not to me the sound of his glad coming. 

1 06 



XLIV Hellenica. 

Barefoot a little lad has wandered far, 

And we have sought in vain, 

For he has found 

The amaranthine meadows. 



XLV 

Now that the flower is blown 

And the rosy petals 

Render earth more fragrant 

With their body, 

Myrrhis dreams of spring in the flaming ground. 



XLVI 

Lightly I walked the hills of my native Hellas. 

Lightly I rest in the heart of her rushing forest, 

Hermas, the hunter, 

At peace, 

With the moon above me. 



XLVII 

Thyrsis, who loved the rain in the dreaming hollows, 
Wanders now soft-sandalled in misty ways, 
Where the scent of flag 
Recalls not 
Hylas, lonely. 



107 



COMPLAINT OF THE OBLIVION 
OF THE DEAD. 

(From Jules Laforgue.) 

FAIR gentlemen and ladies 
Whose mother is no more, 
It is the sexton's spade is 
A-scraping at your door. 

The dead 
Are under grass; 
Nothing said; 
Let it pass. 

You smoke in your ale, 
You settle a scheme, 
Below sings the cock: 
Poor dead in a dream ! 

Grandpa is nodding 
Over his cup, 
Sister 's crocheting, 
Mother lights up. 

The dead 
Are discreet, 
The wind 
Is so sweet. 

You Ve dined very well : 
How goes your affair? 
Ah! the little still-born 
Are not fondled so there ! 
108 



Set down with a pen Complaint 

The account, if you 're brave, oblivion 

"To cost of the ball: of the Dead. 
The last mass and the grave." 



'T is gay, 
This life; 
Heigh, wife? 
What, nay? 



Fair gentlemen and ladies 
Whose sister is no more, 
Open ! the sexton's spade is 
A-knocking at your door. 



If you do not take pity, 
He '11 come (without spite) 
And drag you by the feet 
At full moon some night. 



Hard-hearted 
Wind that flays! 
The departed? 
Gone their ways 



109 



THE DEAD MAIDEN. 

(From Paul Fort.) 

THE maid is dead, is dead in her love's fire. 
They laid her in the earth, the earth at break of 
day. 
They laid her there alone, alone in her attire, 
They laid her there alone, alone within the clay. 
And home they wended gayly, gayly with the day, 
Homeward singing gayly, gayly : " Each his day. 
This maid is dead, is dead in her love's fire." 
And to the fields, the fields they went as every day. 



THE DRIFTING MAN. 

(/. M.: John Millington Synge: 1871-1909.) 

I 
^HEY dwelt there by the surging of the sea, 
A And toiled and dreamed and wondered by the 

fire, 
And never woke to fear, for they were free, 
Free as the servant worthy of his hire. 
And in the rustling shadows of the hearth, 
When night would settle slowly on the world, 
They gathered in a group of pleasant mirth 
To idle wisely, while the turf-smoke curled 
Up through the swallow-haunted chimney-place, 
And love and simple faith lit every face. 

no 



II Tlus Drift- 

ing Man. 

Shadows on honest faces in the gloom 

Would dream of neighbors homing through the 

drift, 
The magic stillness soften in the room, 
And gentle eyes of solitude would lift, 
While kneeling in a circle on the ground 
And whispering the rosary of rest, 
Their fragrant worship flowered into sound, 
And thou wert there, a drifting silent guest. 
The lonely swaying sorrow of the wind 
Would call to thee in murmurs that repined. 



Ill 

And now when summer sun is on the thatch, 

They dream of thee beyond the open door, 

And one may sigh a little with a catch, 

But thou art gone. Dark Seaghan* is there no more. 

Down the long windy road thou travellest home 

From Aran to the setting of the stars, 

Into the singing west thy footsteps roam 

Out of the bitter end of passioned wars. 

The little room is empty, and the walls 

Are lonely when the voice of silence calls. 

IV 
And one, a boy who wandered on the strand, 
Thy friend and mine, who gave to thee his heart, 
Bides sadly for thy presence and thy hand, 
For thou and he may never dream apart. 

* ' Shawn/ 

in 



T he Drift- Dost thou behold him brooding on the rocks 
High o'er Killeany, where the Western surge 
On Aran's heart and thine forever knocks, 
And Western winds forever moan thy dirge? 
The rushing waters and the frozen rain 
Are breaking, for their hearts of thee are fain. 



V 

And now I may not take the road with thee, 
When April larks are climbing in the air, 
And music falters o'er the foaming sea, 
And poetry and Ireland are fair. 
Or swirling through the cloudy Aran sound, 
Thy curagh shall no longer in the dawn 
Carry in laughing triumph with a bound 
Thy drifting face to holy Inishmaan. 
Thy flesh forsaken on a windy hill, 
Thy spirit chaunts her dying passion still. 



VI 

Thine heart hath burst in sorrow for the love 

It bore the breaking heart of Inisfail. 

Thine holy spirit hovereth, a dove 

Of light to soothe the memory-haunted Gael. 

The sorrowing of Maurya for her sons, 

The crying of the sea-gull o'er their grave, 

The aching beauty of the flaming ones, 

Now mourn in thee the one they might not save. 

Yet passion ended, deadly dying done, 

Thine eyes now call us to the flaming Sun, 

112 



FOR ONE WHO WENT. 

(/. M.: 'Joseph Mary Plunkett.) 

THOU, calm swan of battle, 
Thou, Host on the hill, 
In the name of an Image 
A dream may not kill, 



The circle is shaken, 
The sword is a fire, 
Thy son in his anger 
Remembers his Sire. 

Brimming of waters 
And echo of wars 
For the dream that he bore 
From the Seed to the stars. 

Wind unto starlight, 
And rain unto sod, 
Between his two shoulders 
The flaming of God. 



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